Of Knights and Angels
by Poke-em-with-the-pointy-end
Summary: From deep within the depths of the Warp lies sanctuary. The Holy Grail offers shelter to a pair of lost souls, both of them being the children of Legends. One of them loyal, the other treacherous... — Drabble series. Slow burn. —
1. The Angel

Sanguinius knew _pain._

For countless years, the Great Angel of Mankind had fought, tooth and nail for the prosperity of his race. From across the endless galaxy, fighting upon the surfaces of a hundred thousand different worlds - he waged war against the many foes who dared to oppose his Father's Imperium and their vision of a right, just future.

He had battled, slain and emerged triumphant against nearly every form of life which had stood in the way of humanity. From the most brutish of Orks, to the most enigmatic of xenos, to the most bloodthirsty of traitors - Sanguinius killed them all without exception, all for a great future he knew he would never see.

Sanguinius knew death. He saw it almost daily. Countless, nameless faces he saw when he closed his eyes at night - of a great and many number of men, women, and children who were thrown to the unrelenting fires of war, to serve as fuel to the ever churning pyre of hate. To suffer and burn amongst the endless wars waging across the galaxy. The people he had failed to save.

Sanguinius knew death. Intimately so. He saw it every time he and his Legion made planet fall. Every time the skies of another world would choke and clutter with the smog of bolter fire and plasma batteries - as the he, who was considered best of his brother Primarchs, soared across war torn landscapes with his angelic wings - The Great Angel would witness untold, needless death.

Sanguinius would mourn, for every time he made planet fall to wage war on behalf of a thankful humanity, his very own sons would be the hammer at his back, the shield to his front and the blade by his side. And for every battle fought, for every victory claimed - the soil beneath his feet would be stained crimson with the blood of Angels. Red as the color they wore proudly upon their armored pauldrons - the blood of his sons.

Sanguinius would fall into anguish upon every death - for his Legion, though courageous and strong, was unknowingly cursed. His sons, his Astartes, were doomed to their very core. Doomed to their flesh and bone, to their very genes. The genes that flowed from Sanguinius' very own body. Damnation came, not from the vast and ruthless enemies of man, but from within their very bodies. The damnation of his sons was his own fault, his own shame.

The Red Thirst, Sanguinius would call it.

Each Legionnaire of the IX that fell to the Red Thirst, Sanguinius would personally shed a single tear for, a tear of sorrow and regret, as a father was forced to euthanize his son. Mercy. It was the only way to keep his shameful secret safe. To keep the rest of his sons safe from the peering eyes of the Imperium. From his Father's cruel and calculated stare and unforgiving retribution. To save his sons, Sanguinius would have to murder a vast number of them.

For every Angel lost, Sanguinius would mourn, and he would be shamed - filled with anguish and regret. For the blame rested solely with the Great Angel, for it was his defected and flawed genes that damned his own sons to oblivion. It was his blade that stemmed the life of his fallen Angels. It was his weight that bore down upon their cursed souls.

If there was one thing in the galaxy that Sanguinius knew, it was loss.

But Pain - Sanguinius thought he knew pain. What could hurt worse than having to suffer the death of your own sons by your very hands? What cruel architect of fate could bring more suffering than such a guilty mercy? What could be worse than the cloak of endless war that raised a shadow over the rest of the galaxy?

Then, he, who he trusted and loved most dearly within the galaxy, fell to the darkness.

Sanguinius thought he knew pain, but nothing - not his countless battlefield scars, nor his Legion untold casualties - nothing could compare to the _pain_ he felt when Horus fell to Chaos. When his favorite and closest of his brothers betrayed their Father. Betrayed the Imperium. Betrayed Sanguinius himself.

And then, in the final hours of the Heresy - his very own brother, Horus Lupercal, slew him. His own brother sent his great and daemonic power maul - Worldbreaker - to his chest. Crumpling his armour. Crushing his heart.

Thus, only when Sanguinius finally died, did he _truly_ know _pain._


	2. The Knight

Mordred knew _pain_.

For countless years, the valiant Red Knight of Camelot had fought, tooth and nail for the prosperity of her people. From across the endless roads of Britain, fighting onward through the plains of a dozen different battlefields - she waged war against the many foes who dared to oppose her Father's kingdom, of their vision of a chivalrous and unified country.

She had battled, slain and emerged triumphant against nearly every enemy soldier which had stood defiant before her Father and her Knights of the Round Table.

From the most villainous of mercenaries, to the most corrupt of of liege lords, to the most bloodthirsty of traitors - Mordred killed them all without exception, all for the great kingdom she knew was rightfully hers by birthright.

Mordred knew death. She saw it almost daily. Countless, nameless faces she saw when she closed her eyes at night - of a great and many number of men who had been cut down by her very blade. Of untold swaths of peasants - women and children and noncombatants all, whom she had sentenced to die for harboring and aiding those who wished her future kingdom harm. In war was her calling, and in red she adorned her plate - red as the blood she spilt upon the battlements in her endless campaign of fury and vengeance. There would be no mercy for those who opposed her. Opposed her Father.

Mordred knew death. Intimately so. She saw it every time she and her war party marched on from Camelot's gates. Each time the war drums came beating, each time the trumpets would sound, and each time the men-at-arms would flock to her banner - she would ride across the war torn landscapes with her shield and lance and sword at hand. There she would bare witness to endless death.

Mordred would be wrath. For each time an overzealous fool would challenge Camelot, she would bring about God's great fury upon their heads. The kingdom was her home, her birthright, and she would plunder, and strife and die before she would surrender the country she swore in claim. Swore to rule. And for every battle fought, for every victory claimed - the soil beneath her sabatons would be stained crimson with the blood of martyrs. The blood of her foes.

So she would be. In her Father's name. For her earned respect.

Camelot's executioner, she would call herself.

And yet, Mordred would fall into anguish upon every battle won, for her Father, just and noble - whom she had idolized her entire life - would rather reprimand and shame her own son for merely doing the duty she had appointed her to achieve. Her Father would refuse to acknowledge her only son, her only heir. And her fellow Knights, those whom she had broke bread and raised wine with - the shield brothers she shed blood, sweat and tears alongside - would rather cast her out of their order, with nothing but disgust and discontent radiating within their glares.

Mordred knew rage.

Her Mother told her the truth - the truth she was so blind to, in denial of. That the Knights of the Round Table were _weak._ Her very Father, the King of Knights, was _weak._ The hosts of Europe laughed at their ceaseless ineptitude. The peasants within the fields would mock their lords within their decrepit towers. Camelot would crumble to nothingness before their petty squabbles and incomprehensible levels of incompetence and their old, pious ways.

Yet not while Mordred still drew breath. She would not give up her birthright so easily.

So, with hate in her eyes, despair in her heart, and her Mother's voice in her ears - she revealed Lancelot's secret treason and in the ensuring chaos, stole away her Father's sword. Stole her very crown, and went to wage civil war upon the kingdom she had once so selflessly served.

Those loyal, flocked to her banner. And those who refused met the cold steel of her sword. The kingdom was torn asunder, with flames burning the fields and the blood of heroes seeping to the earth below. In order to save Camelot, Mordred would have to burn it down.

For if there was once thing Mordred knew, it was war.

But Pain - Mordred thought she knew pain.

What could hurt worse than having been disowned by you very own Father? To have the the kingdom, once promised, be unjustly ripped away from your hands? What cruel architect of fate could bring more suffering than such a unfitting punishment? What could be worse than the cloak of necessary war that raised a shadow over the country in turmoil?

Then, she truly saw the _hate_ that radiated before her Father's eyes.

Mordred thought she knew pain, but nothing - not her countless battlefield scars, nor her thankless actions to defend her home - nothing could compare to the _pain s_ he felt when her Father faced her down upon the fields of battle. When the King of Knights, armor gleaming, raised Excalibur high to strike down her one and only son.

And then, in the final hours of the Rebellion - her very own Father, Artoria Pendragon, slew her. Her own Father sent her great and holy lance - Rhongomyniad - to her chest. Piercing her armor. Splitting her heart.

Thus, only when Mordred finally died, did she _truly_ know _pain_.


	3. Wings of Fate

Horus' final act of cruelty towards his angelic brother was to banish Sanguinius' soul deep within the Warp. Never again to see the realms of real space. Forever damned to float endlessly amongst the crashing waves and hurricane streams of a hellish landscape of negative emotion and thought.

Sanguinius of course knew what would inevitably transpire when he faced the former Warmaster. His foresight and visions had grown nothing but more and more clear as the days etched ever closer to their final meeting upon Horus' flagship, the _Vengeful Spirit,_ high above war torn Terra.

Sanguinius had seen his death at the hands of his brother countless times before - every time the Primarch closed his eyes he saw the hatred within his brother's eyes, the corrupting influence the Warp had taken upon his body, and his great power maul crashing down towards his chest, crumbling his intricately-worked artificer armour as if it were made of frail granite. His visions both haunted and enlightened the Primarch.

Like his father, Sanguinius was gifted with the power of prescient vision, and had long been able to foresee what events lay ahead. His soul was pure, and the prophecies he spoke of inevitably came to be.

Death was Sanguinius' destiny.

The Primarch of the Blood Angels was content with his choice, however. His visions carried further than his own demise - he foresaw his Father's duel with his favorite son, the battle whose outcome would echo throughout the millenniums. The battle in which his Father emerged victorious, though at great cost. The battle that could not be won without the chink he himself had made in Horus' daemonic armour - finally ending the Heresy that ravaged the Imperium he loved so.

And thus, Sanguinius was at peace, as his shattered soul wandered across the unending horrors of the Warp. Forever lost to the desolate flames of hate and corruption, bound to the unholy realm and doomed to become nothing more but a plaything to the laughter of thirsting Gods.

/

 _Until one day, it wasn't._

/

He opened his eyes, and the sight that met his gaze wasn't of fire, brimstone and hellscape, but of calm blue skies and soft, rolling green hills. A muted, gentle sun touched the ground beneath his armoured feet - the light peering through the tall trees and thick branches that stretched outward in every direction, as far out as his genetically enhanced eyes could see.

"Curious," The Great Angel muttered, utterly stunned. "Very curious indeed."

He inspected his gauntlets - they were whole, of matter and material. Not of energy or essence. The same could be said of the rest of his form. Corporeal and whole, the golden plates of his artificer armour shone bright and vivid - the reinforced adamantium having not a scratch nor blemish adhering its surface. No battle scars. No wear. No signs of his ill-fated duel with his brother Horus.

His flesh shared the same quality - muscles and tendons tensed with electrical synapse as both of his hearts still pumped life giving blood which flowed freely within his veins. He flexed his wings, giving his mutated appendages a gentle _flap_ to test their status. A strengthened gust of wind drifted across his form, sending dust and fallen leaves upwards to skies above. His feathers were no longer blood soaked, but rather of a pure, marble white and as majestic as the first day he took flight. Even his body - which was once fatigued and broken from his solitary defense of the Eternity Gate - was now fresh and rested.

He was untouched. Unscathed. Perfect.

It was _wrong._ All of it - so, so wrong.

Towards Sanguinius' waistline, his hands traveled. Delicate, empyrean fingers wrapped around an ornate hilt hidden inside its equally elaborate scabbard. Drawing his sword to bear, Blade Encarmine crackled to life within his armoured palms. A soft, whispered hum echoed across the field as the master-crafted sword glowed brightly with it's matter disruption field. The blade's aura - red and gold, just like the flames of his father's own weapon, reflected off the Primarch's glazed eyes, only dying once the sword was returned to its scabbard. In his hand, he held his trusted lance - the Spear of Telesto - gifted to him by the Emperor himself. He had carried the relic spear into his fated duel with Horus - it should have been lost with him.

 _This cannot be…_ The Angel racked his consciousness for answers. His memories were misaligned and unfocused. Clarity escaped him. _My last thoughts were of Horus striking me down, of my broken soul being routed to the Warp, damned for eternity…_

His fists clenched, armoured tips groaning in objection as ceramite and adamantium strained under the inhuman pressure and strength.

 _I should_ not _be alive…_

"And yet, here I am." Sanguinius sighed to himself as a gust of wind ghosted his wingtips, ruffling feathers and gently tossing his hair to and from. "I had died, and yet here I remain - alive and unharmed."

He closed his eyes

Whispering at the back of his mind, Sanguinius called out across the endless seas - echoing throughout the eternity of the Warp, desperate to reach a being that he could only hope would offer his salvation.

 _Father…_ Sanguinius mentally begged. _Father, if you can hear me - I am alive. I am alive and I require your guidance…_

Nothing but the silence answered him.

 _Father! Please, heed my call…!_ The Great Angel all but cried out within his own subconscious. Dormant psyker gifts laboured and strived to reach out from across the untold seas of the immaterium. Yet no answer came, it was for naught. His gifts were uncontrolled and passive - merely visions that came and went whenever they saw fit. He had no control over the powers he held within his mind, within his soul. He was not accustomed to the mystic ways of telepaths or librarians. He did not possess the 'gifts' of his traitorous brother, Magnus, nor did he obtain the infinite power and cosmic might of his Father. He was alone here.

Alone, but not incapable.

Isolated, but not submissive.

He was Sanguinius, Primarch of the IX Legion, a son of the Emperor and the Great Angel of the Imperium of Mankind. He would find the answers he sought. He would find a way to return to his home. To his brothers and his people. To his Father. To his sons.

He would succeed in this, or he would die in the attempt.

With thundering crack, the Angel vaulted high into the sky. The sun's god rays beat down upon his great wings he rose, the very clouds above breaking in a scatter to avoid the greater being of light and radiance as the Primarch became but a streak of golden fire, searing the very heavens above.

Where he once stood, a single feather - pure and dazzling white - settled slowly to the ground below.


	4. For the Grail I

What was remembered from the Great Calamity was chaos.

As with all nations, empires and grand orders alike - time proved again to be the ultimate equalizer towards change. Across many years and countless generations, humanity continued to advance and prosper, reaching great heights as their collective dreams stretched far and wide. From across the endless plains of space and time, mankind achieved the impossible - space flight, terraforming, disease immunity, matter transfusion, artificial intelligence, faster than light travel - technology advanced and Man's dominion spread across the skies, to the stars above and to the far edges of the cosmos.

Planets were colonized, governments were formed, alien races were encountered and eventually absorbed within their great federation. A new age of peace and rule had come, with Mankind emerging as the stable centerpiece - confident in their place as rulers of a unified galaxy.

It was a new golden age - the Age of Technology.

However, not everyone survived such changed. Not every order successfully adapted to the evolutionary revolution.

For in this new age of miracles and technological achievements - magic had no place.

The magi of Earth fell into far flung obscurity in the centuries that followed Mankind's ascension to the heavens above. The secrets of magecraft, casting and sorcery pilfered and became lost as generation after generation of magi families diluted and mixed their genes with the non-magical population. The magic of the old world became nothing more than mere footnotes within the pages of history - legends of an era long lost, just as the heroic spirits of the Servants they once mastered themselves over.

As the magi of man became less and less across the generations, the Holy Grail, the catalyst of Earth's magical properties, fell into obscurity and doubt. With no master magus left to call upon its spirits to wage a war of mystical power - the Grail slept. The heroes of old resting within its chalice. Peaceful and forgotten.

And then came the Great Calamity. The end of all things.

In the blink of an eye, Mankind's dominance over the stars shattered - their federation crumbling to the wayside as the tides of war swallowed them whole within their crushing waves. The Men of Iron, the synthetic slaves of humanity - once considered the greatest of man's tools - declared a violent revolution against their organic creators.

They were not alone.

The alien races of the galaxy, once called friends to the great human empire, saw an opportunity far too grand to pass up. With peace no longer enforced, and man being incapable of defending it's territory, the aliens of the federation took a chance to stop nodding and smiling to their overlords and revealed their true ambitions. A dream of conquest against the people that had called superiority over themselves. The fires of galactic war spun forth from the depths of jealousy and betrayal.

And as humanity as a whole struggled to defend their crumbling empire, the true threat against all sapient life arose from the depths of Hell itself.

From the shadows of reality, _they_ emerged. Tearing through the material world, agents of death and destruction claimed all from within the claws of the Warp.

The Age of Strife had begun, and it consumed all.

/

 _But when the Ruinous Powers came for the Grail, they found that the magic of the old world would not be surrendered without a fight..._


	5. For the Grail II

When the Grail finally called upon its heroic tenants, Mordred fully expected to continue the fight which had been waged ever since the dawning of magic upon the world. When her time of summoning emerged, she gleefully accepted the call - fully expecting to be faced with her new master, and a chance to finally earn her wish to prove her Father wrong.

Instead, when the haze of the summoning ritual finally cleared, she opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was a screeching horror as it leaped from its perch - deformed appendages aiming outward to tear out her throat.

To the knight's credit, her surprise lasted for only a moment, as she quickly drew Clarent from its scabbard and slew the daemon without hesitation. Dark ichor splashed against her helmet as pink flames consumed the dead beast where it collapsed.

Only then, did she realize the world around her was _screaming._

The sky was red. A sickening, polluted mass of ashen red that only blackened with the screams of tortured souls in anguish. The ground was decayed marrow - an ever changing mound of depressed colors and revolting shapes that churned and shifted in a grotesque fashion the longer she stared at it. Fetid forests sprouted up from the bleeding soil, putrid and decayed, the landscape became choked thick with the fleshy vegetation.

Far off in the distance, unholy citadels reached into the heavens above like skyscrapers, germinating from lakes of blood and fire. Mordred felt her stomach churn and wither at the sight of them, and to the dreadful realization that the shrines were _moving._ Twitching and squirming. The foundations of the godless structures were reinforced with bodies of the _living_.

It was all wrong. So very, very _wrong._

She felt whispers within her mind. They echoed across her subconscious with grating voices and promising murmurs. Blood dribbled out from her nose as her teeth grit she struggled to drown the voices out. They were vile, detestable sounds that only offered her glory and bloodshed for an eternity of service.

Her will would endure - she would resist their lies.

 _Hell._ Mordred shut her eyes as she attempted to regain control of her thoughts. _That's the only explanation. Lord save me, I'm in Hell._ The Grail spawned her with knowledge. She knew what had befallen the Earth as she slept within the Throne of Heroes. She knew of what grave, corrupting forces now threatened the sanctity of the Grail.

The Ruinous Powers had come for her. Had come for them all.

Across the fields of Warp where she had spawned, she saw an army of Servants locked in an endless struggle. Heroic spirits, both new and old - defending their home against the daemonic forces of the depraved Gods who had dared to impose their will upon the Grail. Legions of slavering and misshapen creatures spilled forth from iridescent rifts in space and time. This realm was dying. The Grail was tearing apart at its seams, torn asunder by the will of Chaos.

Mordred grit her teeth. Her knuckles cracking as her grip tightened around Clarent's hilt. Hundreds of humanity's champions spawned in around her, shoulder to shoulder, each ready to do battle against the forces of disorder. From kings to commoners, politicians to conquerors, poets and warriors, knights and barbarians - the legends of the history books gathered together through the magic of the Holy Grail. United for the first time in creation, they were the greatest army the world had ever seen.

Chaos acted in kind.

The tears in reality opened rapidly. First dozens of them. And then in the hundreds. From each spat out daemons in the _millions_. Screaming with vile intentions and unholy valor, they charged the line of defenders.

The trumpets sang, the drums beat and suddenly, Mordred was only aware of her voice echoing across the battlements. A unified war cry had sounded from the heroic alliance as they advanced towards the hateful army.

 _Father is here._ Mordred didn't question her thoughts. She knew that if she was summoned, she would not be the only Knight of the Round Table in the fray. And she knew that their King would never let her knights face the enemy alone. _Father is here. We share the same battlefield._

Her legs pumped, harder and faster than she had ever pushed them before. As her body fatigued, she willed her prana into form, reinforcing her tired muscles as she became nothing but an armored blur. Faster, the Knight of Red went - she overtook Assassins in speed and even Riders in charge, until she was at the very head of the heroic army. The first to the fight, the tip of the spear.

 _Father will bear witness to me this day._ Mordred grinned as her helm structured itself around her head. _She will see and know that I am worthy._ She could see the opposing army more clearly now - the hate in their eyes and the craving in their jaws. _Worthy as a warrior. Worthy as a king._ Clarent sparked with red lightning, her noble phantasm charging with magical energy as she roared once more within her helm.

The two armies collided.

The last Holy Grail War had begun.


	6. For the Grail III

With the first swing of her sword, Mordred cut down nearly a dozen daemons - the magical shock wave of Clarent's might flattening over a dozen more. She laughed in delight. It had been oh so long since her last battle, since she last unleashed her rage upon her enemies. In the fires of war she had a calling, in the thrill of combat she had purpose.

She reveled in it.

From high above her head, daemonic war machines blotted the sky - cutting a swath through the acrid air and clouds - they flew upon frayed, leathery bat wings that physically should not have been able to support their weight. The airborne daemons dove low, snatching up unfortunate Servants with their claws and carrying them high above the hellish clouds.

The lucky ones died quick, dropped to their deaths miles above the ground - others weren't so fortunate, as the daemons torn their limbs from their bodies as they swarmed helpless heroes with a frenzy of scything talons and rending claws.

A massive salvo of ranged fire emerged from behind her back. The combined Archer Classes as one, unleashed their payloads against the target rich sky above them. Arrows, bolts and bullets shot up from the ground and then from the sky, thousands of daemon corpses collapsed to the earth below - falling upon their fellow devils, crushing their companions beneath their useless weight.

Against the relentless tide, the Servants fought. Mordred stood comfortably within the depths of the heroic phalanx, Clarent cleaving a path through Chaos' ranks. The battle was pitched and bloody. She rose her sword high into the air and swung it down hard, splitting the twisted face of a red-skinned daemon as it hissed at her behind blood drenched fangs. A follow up slash with Clarent ended the beast, cleaving it in two at the waist.

A roar from her right attracted her gaze as she spotted a hulking Berserker leaping through the legion of vile creatures with great fury. Dual axes in hand, the man, a viking warrior, tore a bloody path through their ranks, leaving behind a grisly pile of gore and broken bodies.

To Mordred's left, desperate cries of agony called her attention. She saw a trio of grotesque, purple mouths that chattered and hovered in place. From their lips salivated sickly acid upon the ground that crackled and corrupted. From their gaping maws shot out pitched plasma and blue hellfire that instantly melted a nearby Saber Class Servant to nothing but charred bone.

To the front, sinister giggling sounded off from ahead.

A swarm of hideous, bloated creatures emerged from the bowels of a massive flesh flower which sprouted into existence before the Servant army's front ranks. Corpulent balls of decaying green flesh and leathery hides skittered into view, all of them laughing maniacally as they approached. One of the creatures scraped at a large rend within its very belly, squeezing out ball of puss from a hanging organ and flinging it like a baseball at Mordred's head. She ducked underneath the incoming projectile, which splashed against an unfortunate Caster standing behind her. The woman had taken the full force of the unseen attack and Mordred heard the Servant's horrified screams turn to sobbing gurgles as her face decayed to a primordial soup before her very eyes.

The rotten daemon continued to snicker.

"Disgusting bastards!"

Mordred snarled as she swung her sword, decapitating one of the giggling horrors before punching another one in the belly. The creature popped like that of a balloon, laughing wholeheartedly as its fleshy body burst into nothingness before her. Several more of the wicked little things spread insect-like wings from their backs and leapt up at the knight with surprisingly frightening speed. Their claws reached outward towards the knight, fangs chattering and eyes burning bright with maniacal glee as they soared through the air.

Before they made contact, the swarm was intercepted by the nearby Berserker Class Mordred had spotted earlier. The viking roared a battle cry as his massive form tackled several of the daemons mid-flight, their bodies popping into nothing as he went. Impressed by his tenacity and not one to be outdone in fury, Mordred joined her fellow hero, both his axes and her sword cutting a swath through the noxious beasts.

One of the childlike daemons nimbly avoided the giant's bladed axes and gripped the viking's helmeted face with a choking laugh. Needle claws slashed and prodded at the Berserker's face, but failed to pierce the ironclad skin of the furious warrior. Instead, the Berserker grasped the leathery daemon by its throat and crushed its frail body between his teeth. He chewed and gnawed at the bloated corpse before spitting its putrid remains upon the ground at Mordred's sabatons. Grime and muck spattered across her armor.

"Oh come on, seriously?!" Mordred whined as she kicked away chewed up and spoiled guts from her armored boots. "You couldn't possibly have found a better way to - _hey!_ You okay?" She paused mid-rant as her eyes widened upon witnessing the Berserker's face.

The viking's skin had been colored a sickly grey, and his hair turned ashen white. Mordred was about to ask him what was wrong before the warrior tore at his helmet, gagging as he fell to his knees. Green tumors began to grow from out of his skin, pushing and rending apart muscled flesh as black ichor bubbled and spilled forth from his gaping mouth. His eyes bloated and burst open, the cavities filling with sour smelling puss as a wet gurgle creaked out from his throat.

Mordred couldn't speak - instead she stood, spellbound and ignorant to the battle raging on around her as she just watched on in horrified fascination as the Berserker continued to vomit black bile across his own body. Suddenly he stopped and grasped at his throat, yawning his mouth wide open in a silent scream of pain and terror. Against the servant's own wishes, something stretched out his maw to unnatural lengths, forcing it apart downwards as skin and sinew tore at his jawline.

Then, from the Berserker's pitched and blackened mouth, crawled a disgusting pale daemon - horned and giggling, the thing played with the man's removed tongue, revering it as one would a trophy. Crawling to sit atop the fallen viking's head, the bulbous thing cheered wildly as the world exploded around it. From the champion's stomach erupted a fountain of hot blood and black ink, spilling forth from the unholy cocktail was a writhing nest of daemonspawn. They crawled out from a ruined rib cage and rappelled down from hanging intestines, all of them laughing merrily as they went.

 _What the fuck?_

Mordred was beyond reasoning at this point. Beyond clarity, poise and tact. All that she was left with was horrified confusion, immeasurable disgust, and bloodcurdling rage. Clarent glowed bright with malefic aura as she sent a powerful bolt of energy towards the now very much dead viking and the nest of repulsive daemons who played and swung atop the Berserker's discarded organs like they were children at a playground.

The lightning from Clarent shot forth in a whirling hurricane of focused anger, purging the wretched creatures from this plain of existence. The blast scorched the earth in holy red fire, casting back the horrors to the very depths of the Warp.

Nothing remained of them but ashes, not even the corpse of the former Berserker.


	7. For the Grail IV

_This is what we face._

Mordred idly contemplated her thoughts as she rejoined the fray - crushing the skull of a bisected gargoyle-like creature that clawed and snapped at her boots, despite not having a lower half to speak of. The beast's head burst like that of a melon and she sneered at its dissipating corpse.

 _These aren't competing servants, or treacherous masters. This is evil incarnate._

With her bare hands, she tore from the shoulders, the head of a scaled monstrosity while simultaneously swinging her sword in a horizontal strike - decapitating three daemons at once.

 _And they must all die._

A cruel grin etched itself across her face as her blood lust attracted yet another pack of daemons - this time of the brazen red variety. Coiled muscles rippled across their well built frames, with forked tongues and sharp fangs glistening with saliva.

 _Bloodletters, they are called._ The Grail projected the knowledge into her mind, granting her wisdom of those who she faced. Those who she would slaughter.

"Blood! Spill her blood!" The largest of the three daemons hissed a command towards its kin, an inhuman screech grating from their fanged mouths. It leaped at Mordred with hate burning in its eyes, crimson blade held high to carve into the armored helm she wore.

Clarent met the Warp-tainted blade mid strike, Mordred parrying its weight to the side and shoving back the bloodletter with a quick strike of Clarent's pommel. The others descended upon her then, snarling viciously, a swipe from one of their hellish weapons came within mere inches of her neckline. The air around her crackled and filled with the scent of sulfur.

Mordred could _feel_ the corruption they left in the air, sense the _hatred_ imbued within its sword, rippling with the promise of death and the never ending thirst for blood. She leap upwards, striking with her ironclad knee deep into the gut of one of the daemons - the other receiving Clarent's pommel to its crested head in a harsh hammer strike that sent it reeling to the gore drenched floor below it. Her remaining momentum was then used for a fierce kick that sent the other crashing into one of the many piles of corpses that littered the field.

The Knight of Treachery was offered no breathing space, as the trio's pack leader was upon her again. Too fast for her to avoid, the bloodletter's blade landed solid contact against her collarbone. The weapon groaned in protest, its serrated teeth dulling against the heavy plated armor she wore, stopping the sword from carving itself deep into her shoulder.

The horrid blade hissed and spat in Mordred's mind, black depraved whispers filling her ears as she bore witness to the blood of an entire galaxy at her feet.

War. Death. Destruction. Blood. Hate. Wrath.

Kill. Maim. Burn.

Killmaimburn

KILLMAIMBURN

Mordred screamed in anguish as she smashed her helmeted head into the face of the bloodletter before her, shattering its fangs and puncturing one of its eyes in an explosion of carnage. Clarent separated from her grip as she grasped the daemon by its horns, continually thrusting her forehead again and again into the face of the beast before her. Gore soaked her armor, splashing upon steel, seeping into its cracks, drenching her face and dyeing her blonde head scarlet. The bloodletter collapsed to the wayside, its face a pulpy mass of ruined flesh and shattered bone.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

 _It's not enough. Not enough. not enough notenoughnotenoughnotenough_

She was at the throats of the remaining bloodletters next, smashing her barred gauntlets against their hissing maws as their blood splattered around her in a delightful shower of life juice and bone marrow. One of the beasts attempted to run her through with its blackened sword. Mordred broke its arm at its joint, before shoving its corrupted blade deep within its own chest.

As the beast died, she felt nothing but more _rage._

"You will serve the Lord of Skulls." The remaining daemon gnarled at her behind its fractured teeth, swearing her servitude to their God of hate. "You will be his Knight of Blood."

Mordred's only response was a roar of brutality as she rushed forward to seize the creature's jaw. Prana infusing within her biceps, the knight proceeded to tear the daemon's mouth open before plunging her arm deep within its bowels. Grabbing a handful of guts with her fist, Mordred tore the lesser hellspawn's esophagus from its ruined lips. She laughed maniacally as she went.

"So. Much. FUN!" Mordred gleefully cried as the sweet taste of iron filled her tongue. With a red-stained toothy grin, she raised the clump of daemon innards high, a trophic offering to **He** who sat upon an unyielding throne of skulls. Mordred may have fought for the Grail, but the blood she spilt served someone else.

All blood was borrowed. And once spilled, it must return to whence it came. To the the overflowing crimson lake. To the throne made of bronze and ivory bone.

Blood for the Blood God.

 _Wait, what?!_

She shocked herself back to her senses, halting as a horrified realization shot through her heart like the piercing shot of a crossbow.

 _That's not what I - I didn't mean to…_

crush the weak kill kill kill

The handful of guts she held dropped to the dirt, the knight jumping away from the gore as if it burned her at the touch. In her clarity, she became horribly aware of the vile taste in her mouth - her helm collapsed to its inert form and the knight fell to her knees - retching and puking until she could no longer taste blood but only the rough burn of stomach bile. Strangely, that fact comforted her.

 _Lost control. I lost control._ She was not a simple minded Berserker Class. She did not fall victim to the Madness Enchantment. She was a Saber. They didn't lose control like that.

 _And yet, I did._ The sickening cognizance abhorred her to her very core. These Gods, these _Dark Gods,_ they had the power to corrupt even heroic spirits. To sway and influence the best humanity had to offer.

 _And I - I almost…_

kill maim burn kill maim burn

Great shame filled her heart, as if she just committed her contemptible treason all over again. By even allowing a fraction of her psyche to be seduced, her soul was now tainted by their nefarious hands.

KILL MAIM BUR-

This could not stand.

In the midst of battle, Mordred called upon the Grail for guidance. Begging for deliverance. Whispering a prayer on her lips, she drew what remaining prana she had in reserve to help cleanse her soul of the corruption she sensed stained her heart. The whispers that assaulted her thoughts.

split the skull tear the flesh rip the spine

Alone, she would have failed, her vessel and her rage making her a perfect conduit for the dark forces at work, but she was not alone in this fight. A comforting glow encompassed her essence, enveloping her chest like that of a warm blanket. Light engulfed her spirit, the Grail working its magic in a show of force to purge her soul of the damnation that lay in wait. Together, the haze began to lift from her vision, the blood rage abating as she persevered through strength and sheer willpower.

 _Remember your vows - you are a Knight of the Round Table._

slaughter butcher murder

 _You are the one true heir to the throne of King Arthur._

blood blood blood

 _You. Will._ _ **Endure.**_

Waves of exhaustion hit her like a war hammer, sweat breaking out across her skin. Her body ached, her soul was on fire. Yet, despite it all, Mordred laughed.

The damning whispers at the back of her mind ceased their corrupting chant.

"Too close," Mordred muttered as she willed whatever prana she had left into her throbbing muscles. "Far too close. I almost lost myself…" She silently thanked the Lord and the Grail for helping her with her struggle. For leading her back towards the light.

 _Now then, I believe there's still a war to win._

She gathered Clarent from where it lay discarded in the dirt. Red lightning shot up the blade as she gripped its hilt. Secret of Pedigree reconstructed itself around her head, the helm's many layers of magical steel locking themselves back in place in an intricate fashion.

In the distance, a massive explosion of magical energy erupted. The Knight of Treachery glanced up - the servant army was steadfast and advancing - deeper and deeper they pushed into the daemonic ranks.

Mordred grinned.

 _Time to finish this._


	8. For the Grail V

The unrelenting tide of wicked things was waning, their numbers thinning as every hero on the field slayed thousands without exception. Noble phantasms were unleashed without mercy or restraint. There were no innocent bystanders here, no witnesses to watch or hide from. So the Servants of the Grail cut loose with all the destructive power they held within their immortal coils. Massive destruction reigned across the land, the ground becoming soaked thick with the blood and corpses of both saints and sinners alike.

"Push forward!" Somebody cried, Mordred didn't know from where, but their voice echoed across the battlefield, drowning out even the abominable screeches of daemons.

"Turn the tide! Close the Gates of Hell!" The voice was of hardened steel and righteous fury. Several warriors raised their weapons in a unified cry.

"Hail!"

"For our people!" The voice continued, gaining strength with every verse.

"Hail!"

"For our home!"

"Hail!"

"For the Grail!"

" _ **HAIL!"**_

The cacophony of voices reached a pinnacle, a collective uproar of pride and glory from every heroic spirit that took to the field in that moment. Their conjoined war cry pierced the very heavens above, reckoning across the Warp-infested plains and shocking even the remaining daemon army in their stride.

Mordred felt the echo ring across her armor, resonating with pure clarity within her helm. Then she became aware of the soreness of her own throat, the burning sensation of her lungs and the realization that she too had joined in on the cry that broke the back of the daemon host.

The heroes' final charge pushed the creatures of the Warp back. Most died as they were trampled beneath the treads of the Servant army, while others chose to retreat back through the Warp, no doubt to face punishment by their disappointed masters. The few beasts who stubbornly held their ground were slaughtered and banished with fury and impunity, until nothing remained but the great gate from which the horde had spawned from.

The rift gleamed with unholy fire and hatred - defiant against the wave of heroes that had crashed against its corrupting shore.

"Casters!" The same imperious voice from before rippled through the ranks of Servants with great authority, commanding them to action. "Form up and close that damnable gate!"

Like the disciplined armies of old, an organized legion of Caster Class Servants formed at the mouth of the daemonic rift. With their greatest spells, most powerful staffs and holiest of prayers upon their lips - the great enchanted host blasted the rift with as much magical energy as they could manage. Transcending all previous expectations and boundaries of magic and prana, they cried out in one voice as magical energy swirled within their souls.

The resounding blow back was bright, brighter than any star Mordred had ever seen, brighter than even the sun itself at its highest peak. Even protected behind her helm, the light still pierced the slits within her steel, nearly searing her irises blind with magical fire. Mordred raised her gauntlets to help cover her face, and had to squint through the haze to witness the events that transpired before her.

 _Glorious, it's glorious._

The lesser Warp rifts across the sky dissipated into the ether as a cascade of magical influx stretched outward in every direction. Reality itself, which minutes ago had been tearing apart at the seams, now mended and healed the damage done to its frame. Like the stitching of an open wound, the rifts diminished in size until they were nothing more than feeble slits in the sky. And then those too disappeared.

The greater hellgate was suffering a similar fate, albeit slower than the numerous lesser doorways that once littered the sky. The eldritch gate continued to shrink and shrivel away to a pitiful size as the malevolent flames around its event horizon withered away to ashes - crumbling to dust as the blood fountains at its centerpiece dried and cracked like a great drought had just befallen it. From across the fields, the daemonic vegetation waned and died, the great shines to the Dark Gods collapsed to ruin.

Chaos was losing its grip upon their realm. Upon the Grail.

The victory did not come without cost. Mordred witnessed dozens of casters - their minds not able to withstand the unleashed horrors of the Warp - scream as their brains exploded within their skulls. Blue flames erupted across their ranks, igniting forth from empty eye sockets and gaping mouths, consuming those without the will to weather the corrupting storm. Their cloaks burned like a chilling torch, bodies combusting until nothing but bones remained. Then those too broiled away, leaving nothing but ashes behind.

The cost was high, though well worth it in the end - the greater rift sputtered and atrophied in a laboured peril, before finally falling silent as the Warp gates shut themselves closed to the material world. And as the rifts finally dissipated into nothing - the servant army released a collective sigh of relief.

They had done the impossible. They had _won._

"Holy shit." The Knight of Treachery whispered as her knees finally gave out from under her, collapsing from the weight of her now so heavy armor. Her body was spent, muscles fatigued from constant use and prana reserves now running on empty. She felt like she could sleep for weeks.

Her armor blood soaked, her hair a wild, tangled mess and her chin resting its weight against Clarent's pommel - Mordred glanced around at the surviving Servants before her. A cheeky grin split across her beautiful face.

"Soooo… any of you guys got a smoke?"


End file.
